


rainy postcards

by Evanaissante



Series: postcards & hummingbirds [3]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Crossover, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, very brief tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 17:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/pseuds/Evanaissante
Summary: It’s Stanley Uris’ birthday and everything sucks. From the weather to his father, it seems like all of Derry has decided to ruin his life, but at least, Stan has Boris to cheer him up.





	rainy postcards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpicyWolfsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWolfsbane/gifts), [porcia_catonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/gifts), [Beatles_and_Bellarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatles_and_Bellarke/gifts).

> welcome to: marie writes in another language about a character she doesn’t know. 
> 
> i have never read nor seen the goldfinch and yet, here i am, in love with these two boys being cute and smitten with dani, cat and hayles, my storis dream team.
> 
> i love you, gays.

_ July 1983 _

The quarry is quiet at this time of the year, maybe it’s because the sky is grey and the wind knocks down everything in its wake, cutting and unforgiving like the blade of a sharp knife. Or maybe it’s because most kids aren’t kids anymore and the new ones have been raised in this post-Betty Ripsom hysteria. Kids don’t go to the quarry anymore, kids don’t spend hours outside with sticks as their only toys, kids don’t play in the streets with paper boats on rainy days, they don’t trust strangers and never come home for dinner.

Kids, these days, don’t want to be Georgie Denbrough.

It’s weird, Stanley used to remember the voice of Georgie Denbrough. He used to babysit him often, with Bill, Richie and Eddie. They used to solve puzzles together while Bill made boxed pasta. He used to sit near Georgie, his small feet kicking softly while Richie and Eddie fought about which movie they would watch tonight. He used to be part of Stan’s life, Georgie Denbrough, and now Stanley barely remembers the colour of his eyes or how he smiled.

Bill cried recently, just burst into tears while walking back from school. He saw a black car park down the street while Ben was talking and they all followed him, he turned and froze before he started sobbing. It didn’t make sense, the car had nothing special, nothing brought this on, but Bill’s legs almost gave out and Beverly grabbed him, taller and stronger than all of them, while he cried. When Bill went home, Stan heard his father tell him to stop whining, that he was too old for this, too old to cry.

_ Growing up is learning how to not give a shit _ , his own voice reminds him and he wants to laugh, he wants the bitterness to make him numb, to quiet the hurt and grief that he carries everywhere he goes. But he doesn’t feel grown, he doesn’t learn, he doesn’t want to. It’s been almost four years since Georgie Denbrough died and it still hurts and Stanley Uris still gives a fuck.

He almost wishes he had a cigarette, which is crazy because cigarettes are disgusting and they will put Richie and Beverly into an early grave, but he wants something to ground him, he wants to feel something else, even repulsion, to make him forget how much this hurts, how much he wants this shit to finally make sense.

“Why you stand out in rain, Kolibri?” A voice says behind Stanley and he doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Boris, he knows this tone, this accent, this  _ name  _ he keeps using. And even without words, Stan knows the sound of Boris’ steps, he knows this strange smell of smoke and melted pop rocks. This is familiar. “You will catch cold, come inside.”

Inside means going back home and Stan would rather catch the motherfucking plague right now then see his father. “I’m fine,” He says, because Boris worries, he knows it, even when Boris doesn’t want Stan to find out, but he isn’t, and Boris must know too.

He sits next to him on the slippery stone, under a tree that lost most of its leaves and never got them back in the years Stanley has come to the quarry. Stan wants to warn him that everything is wet and cold, that he should go home, but it would sound hypocritical even from him. And Boris is wearing a sweater and jeans, not a stupid polo shirt and shorts, his legs aren’t sticking to the rock yet, he’s not drenched, he’ll be okay.

Boris scrunches his nose anyway, his fingers twisting and finding Stan’s pockets, fitting his hands inside like it isn’t abnormal to just stick your hands down your friends’ shorts. “Why is so cold in July?” He’s not whining, because Boris doesn’t whine, but Stan would qualify his expression as a pout. “Is Summer, no?”

“Derry isn’t really the best spot for sunbathing,” Stan doesn’t move Boris’ hands from his pockets, they’re just hands, it’s  _ fine _ . “Most summers are quite cold.”

Boris hums and he’s tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the rain falling on them, it should be annoying, especially since he’s doing it directly on Stan’s leg, but he doesn’t actually mind. “How you watch birds when raining?” They have talked about this before, well, not the rain but the whole bird observation and Boris asked questions, just like now, with his huge brown eyes digging into Stanley’s, never dropping his gaze. There’s a calm intensity to Boris that just clashes with everything Stanley knows, most of his friends, and especially Richie, they’re always on fire, burning with the power, anger (Eddie, he’s thinking about Eddie on that one) or the joy of a thousand suns. But Boris just flares serenely, there’s a war underneath his skin, but it never breaks to the surface. The chaos is contained in his veins, Stan both admires and fears that.

“I don’t most of the time,” He replies, “I did once when I was younger but I damaged my father’s book and I haven’t done it since then.” 

Boris stares and he takes out his hands from Stanley’s pockets, his fingers always seem so long under pale lightning, like the claws of a classic vampire. He has the looks for it too, but Stanley is straying from his thoughts. “I thought you do it today,” Boris starts and he’s tugging a wet curl behind Stan’s ear as he speaks, unbothered but their proximity. It’s making Stan’s skin crawl. 

“Why?” Stan asks, voice rough, he shouldn’t be so affected, he  _ can’t  _ be. He’s been close to Richie, Eddie or even Bill before and when they touched, his heart didn’t just decide to stop in his chest like a broken clock. But none of them looked at him like that either, and Boris might share Richie’s looks, but there’s something in the way he truly sees Stan that tears apart at the corners of what makes Stanley sure of who he is, of what he  _ thinks  _ he knows about himself.

Boris’ fingers are still near his face, “Is your birthday, no? Richie told me.” 

This shouldn’t knock the breath out of Stan but it does, it  _ does _ , and he’s speechless. Why does this mean something to him? Why does Boris care about his birthday or his fucking birds, why does he care about the cold and the rain,  _ why _ ? Why can’t he see that Stan is tired, that he doesn’t know where he stands, that he’s at his limit, he’s at the edge of the water, both figuratively and literally. He stands on shaky grounds, he’s trying to rebuild what he knows on ruins and he’s so tired of it all. Sandcastle were fun for children, but now they’re fragile and seeing them fall bruises Stan like a blow.

“Why do you care?” He barks out, regretting it as soon as it leaves his lips because he never wants to be one of those who lead Boris away, but he feels lost. He wants to lick his wounds alone, he wants to stand on the rocks and count the raindrops that hit his face while he weights the price of stepping off the ledge.

He hates that he wants to hurt, but he  _ does _ . Hurting makes sense, crying he understands, hating he can accept, he just wants to let himself feel it all, he wants to give a shit for just a little longer.

Boris doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t deflect the question, he  _ stares _ . “Because I do.” 

It’s so simple with Boris even when it’s not, it makes sense even when it doesn’t hurt and that’s scary, that’s terrifying, it makes every hair on Stan’s body stand and all the voices in his head scream. It yells that this isn’t normal, that this isn’t real, or that at least it won’t last. But Boris is here, Boris listens and he sees. And Stan, he wants this more than he can say. He doesn’t know what  _ this  _ exactly stands for, but he knows enough.

“I wanted to watch the birds with my dad,” He finally says because he’s come to the point where if he doesn’t, he will implode. “I wanted it to be my birthday gift, but he said that I was too old for it.” The anger comes back swinging, “It doesn’t make any sense because my dad still loves and does it now and he’s older than me, but _ I _ need to stop because it’s becoming childish.”

Boris shrugs, his curls are wet too now and they’re falling on his forehead like the curtain of a theatre on a stage. “Parents rarely make sense.” There’s an unspoken thing in those words, the truth that Boris isn’t speaking about the Toziers.

“I don’t even really want him to come with me,” Stanley continues when it’s clear that Boris will leave it at that. “I just, I don’t know actually what I wanted. I know I didn’t want this.”

“You’re sad,” Boris’ eyes are shining with something Stan doesn’t understand, “Not just for birthday birds.” 

Stan exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. “No, I actually couldn’t give less of a fuck about the birds today.” 

“Something happened?”

“No, actually, nothing ever happens anymore.” It sounds too bitter for a sixteen-year-old but Stan knows he’s a grandmother stuck in the body of a teenager, Richie has warned him about it often enough. “Nothing ever happens and since everything is fine now, we should all forget about Betty, or Matthew and we certainly should forget about  _ Georgie _ .” He doesn’t want to yell, but the name rips out of him and his words bleed out, “We shouldn’t care about it at all, we shouldn’t care about anything because we’re becoming too old, and that means fuck it all, right? Except, don’t say that  _ fucking  _ word, because you can mean it but don’t say it. We all need to move on and to become adults, to stop caring and crying. We need to forget but I don’t want to.” 

His eyes find Boris’ and they cut through him but it doesn’t hurt. “I don’t want to become old if it means forgetting how Georgie held my hand when we crossed the street, or how he would climb on Bill’s shoulders and laugh. I don’t want to change, Boris, I want to stay me. And this?” He shows the quarry because it’s all he has, but it goes beyond the dirty water and sharp rocks, it’s years of memories. “This is me too.”

They stay quiet for a moment, the silence only broken by the wind and Stan’s breathing, Boris looks and looks, his lips pressed tight like he’s afraid to let a sound out, Stan hates it. He’d rather have Boris call him an idiot then observe him like he can figure out the parts of Stan that don’t fit together on his own. But Stan gives it time, he doesn’t have a choice. He can’t very well get up and run away, even if it’s all he wants, Boris is his partner for most of his school projects, he’s Richie’s brother and most importantly, he’s his  _ friend _ . So Stan waits, he lets the rain freeze him a little more and he tries to count rounds they leave in the water below him when they fall. It’s impossible, but it occupies the time.

“Your dad,” Boris finally says, Stan could almost cry with relief. “He’s, how Richie say,  _ busting your nuts _ ?”

Stan snorts, he can’t help it, the tension that filled his body just a few seconds ago melted like snow would under sunlight. He feels like an old snowman, he feels old, actually, just that. He feels like an old, old man. “Yeah, he’s busting my nuts.”

Boris nods gravely, like the busting of Stan’s nuts is a very important affair and it’s his frown, that very serious frown, that makes Stan’s heart skip a beat, the traitor. “He sounds stupid, your dad, like stupid asshole.” 

With anyone else, Stan would try to keep a modicum of respect for his father, it’s how he was raised, but with Boris, he just lets it slide, because, well,  _ because _ . If Boris who lived God knows where with God knows who calls his father an asshole, Stan is just going to say yes, he thinks Boris is probably the expert on stupid assholes if he’s being honest. He’s living with Richie after all.

“He’s not the most loving father,” That's what you call a euphemism in the business, “He’s not a bad man, he just-”

“Doesn’t care.” Boris finishes and it’s not exactly what Stanley was going to say, but maybe it’s more honest, maybe he’s just trying to find excuses where there isn’t any. 

Stan sighs, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Want to know what I think, Kolibri?” Stan nods because he does want to know, maybe that’s all he’s sure of right now. He wants to know what Boris thinks, he wants to  _ understand _ . “I think you care too much about him, not enough about you.” It’s not an accusation, but it feels like a sentence, Stanley doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t say anything in the end, he stares, just like Boris and he waits that the boy pulls out something out of his jeans’ pocket. It’s folded in two and the edges crimped from the rain, there are creases where there shouldn’t be and the corners are round where they should be pointed. When Boris puts it in Stan’s hand, he expects it to crumble, but it doesn’t and quickly, Stan discovers the image of a green and red hummingbird looking back at him.

“For your birthday,” Boris says as an explanation, his eyes not leaving Stan’s. 

“Another  _ Kolibri _ , uh?” Stan teases, he wants to unfold the postcard but he’s afraid it will just tear apart under his fingertips, “Was one not enough?”

Boris smiles and it’s genuine, Stanley’s learned how to dissociate the real ones from the polite or hostile show of teeth that Boris sometimes executes at school, “This is not Kolibri, this is  _ beija-flor _ ,” He points to the hummingbird’s neck, where Stan can see a few red feathers, “They are like rubies.”

“They’re beautiful,” Stan says and he wishes the rain would stop, he wishes he could see the entirety of the bird’s plumage. 

“Yes,” Boris looks back at him, eyes piercing and wide, “They are.”

Something breaks in Stan’s heart, something gives out, he feels it all pull away from him and he only knows one thing.

“They are free, the birds,” Boris continues, unaware of Stan’s tumult, “Is that what you like? Is that what you want too?”

He does it before thinking against it. He could say that he does it because it’s his birthday, because he’s probably caught that damn cold and he’s getting feverish, he could say it all, but the truth is that Boris’ lips look red under this light and his voice heats Stan’s skin like never has before. He could say it was a mistake, but he knows he wants this and he knows why before his lips find Boris’.

And when his hands cup his cheeks, when he feels Boris’ curls under his fingertips, he finally thinks that he knows what it feels like to still give a shit.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudo and a comment!


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